But even as she asked it, she knew the answer, and gave it herself. "No, I know there isn't. Father would send me if he could. I'll try to be patient, mother. Don't worry. Don't mind, mother—" seeing that her mother's tears were flowing. "I'll try not to think of it or talk of it any more. I've had one year, anyway. And maybe I can take a correspondence course, or something—"
She tried to speak bravely, but it was more than she could manage just now, and she hastily kissed her mother, and ran away to have it out by herself.
The children thought it strange that "Sister," suddenly stopped talking of her college experiences and the pranks and frolics of the girls. To their questions and demands to hear more, she would reply quietly, "There isn't anything more to tell you, Floss. I guess I talked myself out those first few days. Now I want to hear all you have been doing during all the months I've been away."
Which effectually diverted the attention of Floss and Billy and Mat and opened a flood of reminiscences of their own school life, to which she tried to listen patiently.
The summer dragged on. Alison had looked forward to it—and beyond it—with such eager pleasure; but the thought that she was not to go back seemed to take all the zest from life. Letters came from the girls—from Evelyn in the mountains, from Polly at the seaside, from Joan and Katherine in Europe—all telling of the good times they were having, and looking forward to their reunion at Briarwood in September. And she would not be there. Trying not to show her disappointment too much, not to distress her father and mother, was as far as Alison could get. She could not look forward; there seemed nothing to look forward to. And to look back to the happy days of last winter was more than she could bear.
So the days passed, and grew into weeks. August came, with glowing sun and deep blue skies. Summer was at its glorious height. One bright morning Billy came whistling in with the mail; a letter for Alison from Joan, her roommate of last winter, and a long, legal-looking envelope for Mr. Fair. Both became absorbed, and Alison, deep in Joan's news, scarcely heard when her father said gravely,
"Aunt Justina is dead."
"Who is Aunt Justina?" asked Floss with some curiosity, wondering why father looked so "funny."
"An old great-aunt of mine, who lived far away, in New England. You children have scarcely heard of her, perhaps, but I used often to be at her house, as a boy, in my holidays. Now she is dead, and her lawyer has sent me a copy of her will. Wait, I will read it."
He unfolded a stiff typewritten document. All the family were listening now. Alison folded up Joan's sheet and looked up, interested.